Bolshy and I could not see exactly what he and the soldier were doing as they bent so closely over the doe, but before I left I pressed forward and spoke to her in our animal language.
"Beautiful creature," I said as she lay on the grass very weak and exhausted, "I heard of you one morning after I came from a dying stick of birch wood. It was sorry for you."
Her glazed eyes brightened. "The trees of the wood are all good to me," she murmured, "they will mourn that I die. They were my play-fellows—the wild deer shunned me."
"You must not die, beautiful one," I said decidedly. "You will grieve the warden and his fine son."
"The cruel hunters," she gasped, "they hunted so long and so hard. Why did they not shoot and kill? I am so weary."
"Rouse yourself, dear one," I said. "Sleep and rest. Do not die, I beg of you. It would be wrong."
"I will try," she just breathed, and I was about to leave her to rest when something made me turn back.
"Oh, why," I said, "did you try to leap when you were so weary?"
"To please my master, whom I love. Could I die a better death?" she said, but so faintly that I could scarcely hear her.
Then I went on, "If you die, you will break the young Denty's heart. He will say that he killed you."